


With Blood-Tipped Dart

by stormbourne



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Chapter Warnings in Notes, Kushiel's Dart AU, M/M, dom/sub dynamics, here's what's in every chapter though:, no previous kushiel knowledge required!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbourne/pseuds/stormbourne
Summary: So here's what you need to know. My name is Dirk. I'm a member of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. Specifically, I belong to Valerian, the house for submissives. And, oh, I'm the chosen avatar of a rebellious angel and I'm supposed to do his holy work or some shit. I've also just come off three weeks without an assignment, and I'm about to be in deep fucking trouble.It's quite a story, if you're willing to hear it. A pretty long one, though.





	With Blood-Tipped Dart

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I'm going to follow the trend of a few other authors and put warnings for chapter content in the endnotes instead of in the tags. If you're not sure you can handle stuff beyond the basic "courtesan au" structure and BDSM, then you might want to check there and make sure nothing's going to fuck you up.

My mother told me, before she died, that all stories are lies.

To this day, I don't think she was wrong. Though it's a pretty dire message to tell your eight-year-old son while you're wasting away with consumption or the plague or whatever the hell it is she had. Pretty insane, to tell the kid you've been scaring with stories of the Nòchtgròbbe and his switch that you made it all the hell up. But I guess when you're about to cark it, you've got nothing else to lose.

Still, I'm glad Dave was too young to know jack all at the time. There's a lot about that day that I wouldn't want him to remember, anyway, but "hey, kiddo, I'm full of shit, and so is everyone else," is sure up there. I mean, at least he grew up to figure out I was full of shit all on his lonesome. 

But regardless: She was right. Every story's a lie. Every time somebody tells you something, they've got an angle. An agenda, like. They aren't painting you the perfect objective portrait of what happened, they're coloring it with their own experiences and biases and all that bullshit. 

That goes double, or triple, or times ten thousand, even, for the story I'm gonna tell you right now.

Anyway, a longass time ago, as I'm sure all of you know, Yeshua got crucified and his magical god son guided a bunch of rebellious angels through the countryside, fucking and feasting as they went. And one of those angels was Kushiel himself, mega-dom extraordinaire, all into punishing sinners for their nonsense in sexy and not-so-sexy ways.

Move forward a few hundred years or so.

Kushiel sees my scrabbly ginger ass get born and decides, you know what? Good enough.

So that brings us, more or less, to today. I mean, I guess I could fill you in on how I ended up in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. I'm sure you're all really goddamn thirsty to know how Dave and I met Rose and Roxy, or the sorts of shitty little adventures our orphan asses got up to, but, well. Maybe later. It'd be a hell of a lot of preamble to get into, right now, and I know that's not what you're here for. You want the good stuff. So here's the good stuff:

I hadn't had a client in three weeks, and I was in deep shit for it.

An initiate of House Valerian rarely goes a few days without a client. The city is full of people who want to get their whip on, and where else are they going to go for it? At least we guarantee secrecy. Come to the Court! Whip your sub, slap him around a little, he'll love it! We'll even clean him up for you, no muss, no fuss! 

This is the sort of attitude, I'm pretty sure, that was responsible for me not having a client in three weeks. 

Etienne had just taken over as the head of the house at the time, and to put it frankly, he'd never fucking liked me. He'd thought I got too much leeway from the previous head of house, which he was probably right about. He resented that said favoritism wasn't reserved for him, the up-and-coming advisor. And honestly, he was probably right about that too. But is it really such a shock? An _anguissette_ or _anguisseur_ only comes along once every few generations, if that. Of course I was a favorite. They were hoping I would make them all shitloads of cash, and that I'd never complain. Hey, he's Kushiel's chosen, he likes whatever you do to him.

I sat in the office before him, refusing to prostrate myself, because, again. Attitude, you know? It made smoke come out his ears. He slammed the accounting book down on the desk and slapped it open with violence that would have made even the most experienced adept blush. Unless, of course, they were me, in which case, well. 

Let's not talk about it.

"Dirk," he said. He enunciated the k on the end with deliberate difficulty, like it had personally offended him. I took a little bit of pride in how hard it was for Angelines to pronounce. My patrons often attempted to give me pet names, even if they never came back. I never responded to any of the ones they came up with. 

"Etienne," I replied, cooly, with a perfect Angeline accent. Despite my name, after all, I was born in the city. 

"Three weeks," he said, drawing his finger across the line that I knew led from my name. It was blank, while all the other names on that page had long, pretty lines of numbers scrawled beside them. "How do you expect to pay for your marque, at this rate? Or, really, pay for your room and board? The Court isn't a charity."

"That's funny," I said. I was being a complete little shit about it. I knew it then; I know it now. "Considering I was the one taken in by the court without having to so much as sign my name, which is good, since I couldn't read or write yet." Etienne glowered at me. I didn't flinch. "If the Court needs me to help pay my own room and board," I continued, like I'd rehearsed it -- which I had, "then maybe I should be moved to a house where I belong."

"You belong here," he said.

I kept going. "I've heard Dahlia and Camellia have openings," I said. I didn't really care about either of them, but I had to have openers for my actual attempt, because he knew it was coming. "And Mandrake -- " 

He snorted before I could continue. It was not the first time we'd had this conversation, but it was the first time he'd been such a direct asshole about it. 

"I'd love to see you so much as attempt to order someone around the bedchamber," he replied, and flipped the book back several pages, scowling. He was not the sort of willowy, frail wraith that most people pictured in the house of submission -- Etienne had a healthy coat of stubble, and a workman's build. But there were stories about the sorts of patrons he'd had. 

"I'm more suited there than I am here," I said. Now I was just reciting old lines.

He snorted, a second time, and then raised a hand to point at my left eye. "That," he said, deliberately annunciating every word, "marks where you belong. Are you attempting to tell me Kushiel gave you his dart to tell the world that you would be commanding and powerful?" 

I could feel my face tense. This was where the argument always led. He'd just leapt to the endpoint earlier this time. 

"The dart has nothing to do with it."

"The dart has everything to do with it," Etienne countered. I knew he was right. I hated knowing he was right. "Kushiel's mark means you are destined for greatness -- " He gave me a look. Likely he was attempting to remind me that I shouldn't let it go to my head, when I hadn't had a patron in three weeks. "-- but also that you are destined for the behavior of an adept of Valerian. What use would an adept of Mandrake have for feeling pain as pleasure, Dirk?" 

This time when he said my name, he spat the k like an attack. It was intended as one, of course. I swallowed, but I also looked away, to the floor. 

He took it as a victory, which it was.

"I can't believe I'm going to have you line up for visitors," he groused. "Like a new adept shaking in his sandals. But what other choice have you left me with? None of your other patrons will come see you again. New customers are your only option, and you'd best hope none of them have heard of your ..." His lip curled. "Reputation."

Frankly, I couldn't believe he was having me do it, either. Sticking an anguisseur in the middle of the lineup for new patrons was like putting foie gras in the midst of children's sweets. There was a very real chance that they wouldn't even know what the red mark in my eye meant, and I would have to sit there, cringing, as Etienne explained it to them and then told them that really, my price was quite generous. 

"May I at least have a day to clean myself up?" I asked. 

"You'd be lucky if I gave you an hour," he said. But he waved me away. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "you had best be smelling like the sweetest jasmine, and you'd best be ready to bow and thank whoever picks you out of the lineup. _If_ they pick you." 

It was a big if. Both of us knew I couldn't contain my urge to look standoffish. And even if I managed that, being sweet and fluttering my lashes at whatever patron decided to grace me with their presence was beyond all of my capabilities. 

"I'll see what I can do."

I left before he could stop me, and made my way to the dining hall to meet my brother for a meal.

Let's talk about Dave, for a second.

I know I told you that I wasn't going to do this, but it seems weird to just tell you about what he and I talked about without a proper introduction. Dave is, as you've likely figured out, my brother. By blood, not by choice like Rose and Roxy. He's three years younger than me and a hell of a lot smarter, though I'd ask that you don't tell him that. Our mother died when I was eight, from some kind of wasting disease I've deliberately tried to learn nothing about. Our father was off at war at the time. I don't know if he ever made it back, though I doubt it. Regardless, by the time he would have, Dave and I had struck out on our own.

Or, rather, I had struck out on my own, with Dave in tow. 

Dave had to grow up fast. Being three, an orphan, and with your older brother as your only caretaker when he's eight fucking years old wasn't exactly the best. I did what I could, but at the time I thought cookies were a full meal. It's a wonder he didn't end up malnourished.

Dave is shorter than me, but I'm a spindly motherfucker, so he's also thicker. In a good way. He started getting fed right younger than me, after all. Despite the fact that he can beat me in an arm wrestle every fucking time, I think he's still largely preoccupied over the height thing. He's in that sweet spot between blond and ginger, which definitely makes him a more popular pick than I am, but let's be honest: He's a more popular pick for a lot of reasons.

Though I'm not sure his patrons care that much for his spoken verse. 

Dave was taken in by the Court at the same time all of us were. It was the only way they could get me to go without a fight. I wasn't exactly going to let them scoop me off the street without taking care of my family. That said, he's the one that probably won't keep up Naamah's work once he's made marque. He went into it voluntarily, same as the rest of us, but I don't think he's super excited to keep seeing patrons all his life. He'll probably move to the artists' quarter and recite his nonsense on street corners for whatever coin he can get, and he'll love the shit out of it.

Do not under any circumstances tell him I said this, but I'd do anything for the little fuck.

Dave was waiting for me when I finally made my way out of my meeting with Etienne. It was already almost noon, and we tried to meet for lunch with Rose and Roxy when we could. Both of them, though, had patrons today -- Rose with the same noblewoman she'd been seeing regularly for months, and who knows with Roxy. She's exceedingly popular. She could be seeing the queen herself and I wouldn't be surprised. 

"You look like you're in shit," he said, mouth full as he talked. 

"You'd be in shit too, if you went three weeks without an assignation," I grumbled, lowering myself to sit across from him. I picked at my food to give myself an excuse to ignore the incredulous look Dave gave me.

"Three weeks," he said. "No shit. What'd you fuckin' do?" 

"Last guy I saw must have a lot of mouthy friends," I said. I shrugged to try and dismiss it. Sure, I don't care. Not like he was that good in bed anyway. "Probably he told them about the bratty prick he saw at Valerian house, they told _their_ friends, word got around the city. Nobody wants to challenge the opinion of Lord What's His Fuck, so they make plans to avoid me until talk settles back down."

Dave, when I looked up at him, seemed unimpressed. "This isn't the first time this has happened," he said, poking his fork in my direction. "I get it, dude, you don't like some of your patrons. None of us do, dude. But it's work." He squinted his eyes, then pulled his face into a sanctimonious sneer. "It's our holy duty," he corrected himself, then let out a snort that turned into a laugh.

"Dave," I said, patiently. He shook himself to calm back down.

"So, why didn't you say anything about this until now?" he continued, waving his fork in circles in the air. "Three weeks, dude. That means I've spent three weeks sitting here thinking wow, sure has been a while since Dirk gave me details I really didn't need about how his last assignation went." 

I shook my head, shrugged, and picked a little bit more at my food. "Didn't seem important," I said. The truth was that I hadn't wanted to worry anybody. And while I also hadn't especially wanted probing questions from Roxy or sage advice from Rose, either, it was really mostly about not wanting to stress anybody else out. Three weeks was a long goddamn time. Every day had been a growing pit of anxiety as I wondered what Etienne was going to do about it. "He's putting me in the lineup," I said.

Dave's whole face changed with his cringe. Yeah, same, honestly. I put my fork in my mouth.

"Well," he said, "maybe you'll get somebody who really doesn't give a shit about Lord What's His Fuck. You get all kinds coming in for lineups." 

His words were optimistic. His voice was not. We both knew the sort of clients that typically were shown lineups, instead of specifically requesting certain adepts: First-timers. Sometimes they were teenagers having their first go on Maman and Papa's dime. Sometimes they considered themselves above seeking assistance from the servants of Naamah until now. Sometimes, worst of all, they'd just lost someone or ended their marriage and they needed a shoulder to cry on. Why that last kind went anywhere besides Balm eluded literally everybody, but I'd had my share back when I'd still been learning the ropes. 

I swallowed my bite without saying anything. Dave grimaced a little at what I presume must have been a pretty goddamn dour expression on my face. 

"It won't be so bad," he attempted, as I continued picking over my food. The meal wasn't the problem; it was fine. The Court employed some of the city's finest chefs. After all, we needed to be kept healthy and hale in order to do our work. I just had no appetite. "You get one good patron who spreads the word, and that's it. Back to making marque like usual, no muss, no fuss. You just gotta ... " He gestured expansively with his fork. 

What I just "gotta" was to rein myself in, I knew. It was going to be a tall order. It wasn't that I didn't like my work. Often enough, I ended up liking it more than I would admit even to myself. But it was the position I was put into which I hated. Kneeling before a master, taking their commands, letting them strike me. None of them tended to like it when I talked back. They didn't come to Valerian seeking that sort of behavior. If they wanted spirited bed servants, then they'd take themselves to Orchis to see people like Roxy, or to Dahlia to see the prideful adepts in their fine things, waiting to be brought low. 

I'd picked the houses I named to Etienne for a reason, after all. Even being treated like a dignified god sitting atop a pedestal would beat some of the treatment I'd gotten from my worse patrons. 

"I know," I finally said, and pushed my plate away. Immediately, Dave pounced upon it. I let him. Whether the two of us were adults or not, I still thought of him as my little brother and, therefore, a growing boy who needed his vitamins. He would really hate to hear that said aloud, though, I'm sure. 

"You could ask Rose to do a reading for you," he said between mouthfuls. "She'd make a stink about it, but she puts more stock in that stuff than she says. She might be able to give you the heads up on whatever." 

"Don't think I need it," I replied. The truth was that I doubted she'd see anything interesting, even if she did buy into all the shit that her house peddled about seeing the future and interpreting dreams. The only thing she'd be able to predict was that I'd get a greenhorn in some fashion and likely I would hate it. And that much, I knew without needing to ask. I didn't need Rose's visions or incense to tell me that I was in for a bad time. 

The curve of Dave's frown turned sympathetic, which told me he had figured out the exact same things I had. 

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry." 

"Got any patrons today?" I asked, instead of indulging myself in even more self-pity. 

"No," he said. "Marque session this afternoon." He jerked one thumb over his shoulder, as if I needed a reminder where his marque was located. "Supposed to be a few hours, last one was a big one." 

I tried not to grimace. There was not just a chance, but a high likelihood, that Dave would finish his marque before I was even halfway done with mine. And while I didn't mind the concept of him leaving the work as a servant of Naamah behind, I was hesitant to even consider the idea of him leaving _me._

Selfish.

I successfully masked my grimace, which was good, since I couldn't exactly have explained it away as imagining how painful a marque session would be. And Dave would hate that bit, too. 

"You onto the flowers yet?" I said, to fill the silence.

"Nah, not yet. More stems. Leaves. That bullshit." He didn't seem interested in going into detail, so I just let him eat, watching him with my cheek pressed against one hand. It was a very slovenly pose, and if Etienne had been there to see it, he probably would have given me an earful for it. He wasn't. "Gonna be sore for a fuckin' week. Hope none of my patrons this weekend want to do missionary." 

If Dave had been in Valerian, he would definitely have had to do missionary. If Dave had my mark, he would have enjoyed it despite his protests. It's not that I don't feel pain, which I think is a common belief about people like me. It's just that in addition to the pain is the intense pleasure, and I don't have a choice about it. I don't know if Kushiel knew that I might be into that shit and decided to make it even better, or if he gave it to me thinking it'd be a good joke because I was going to bristle at taking orders, or what. Do angels even have a sense of humor? Hell, even if most of them do, does the angel dom who used to punish all of the world's sinners have one?

"You'll be fine," I said instead of giving voice to any of that bullshit. Dave didn't appreciate hearing about my work, so he'd appreciate hearing my speculation about my divine calling even less. "You know your typical patrons, just turn down the ones that might want you to lay on your marque."

Dave shrugged. Unlike Rose, I was under the impression he didn't have a lot of regular patrons -- just the sorts who came to Eglantine happy enough to take whoever was available.

"You doing the cleanup routine after this?" he asked, and pushed a slice of potato across the plate, where I speared it with my own fork. "Polish and spit shine, your bath salts and shit? Figure they want you squeaky fuckin' pristine, for the lineup tomorrow." 

"I mean, I'll bathe in the morning," I said, but Dave knew I would take pretty much any excuse for a long bath. I had no patrons today, so yeah, I was likely to take a bath, read some throughout the afternoon, and attempt to find other ways to distract myself from the gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach. Much as I disliked some aspects of the Court, I got to stay nice and fresh, which was a welcome change from our time on the streets. 

"You should really go see Rose," he said. Still on about the fortune reading, probably. "Or at least Roxy. I mean, I'd go see Roxy myself in your shoes, because then I wouldn't have to deal with Rose being sanctimonious for a few hours until the grapevine did its work."

"Rose has good advice," I said.

"Rose is nosy," he replied. 

"I don't need her to read my future, either way," I finished. "Can't tell me anything I don't already know."

The rest of lunch wasn't really anything to write home about. Dave gave me the early version of some of his spoken verse. It was actually pretty damn good. Angelines don't appreciate a good verse without music, and it sucks for Dave. Maybe once he's made marque he'll learn lute or some other shit. I gave him my thoughts, made a couple of suggestions for rhyme changes, and then I split to go to the baths while it was still pretty empty. 

Midday is prime patron time. Angelines love their lunches and afternoon tea, and even more than that, they like to fuck in between the two. So when I made my way to the baths, it was empty but for the steaming water and the few attendants milling around to keep things clean. I gathered my favorite soaps and shampoos, and let myself sink down into the water.

I'm not going to bore you about how long I took in the bath, or anything like that. Just know that when you're a kid on the streets of Night's Doorstep, taking a nice long soak and getting yourself clean becomes a luxury. I might have grown up in the Court since then, but I still savor my bathing time. I relaxed, cleaned up, scrubbed every fucking nook and cranny, and then I dressed myself and headed back to my chambers to light some incense and marinate myself in it like a fine cut of beef. 

And that's the basics of it, really. Unless you want to hear how I had a philosophy text tucked inside my copy of _The Log of Seven Hundred Kisses_ and nobody ever bothered to check, that's all I did until the next morning. Then I rose, bathed -- again -- and then reported to the foyer of House Valerian. There, I knelt on one of the pillows strewn about and waited for the patrons to come to us. 

The other adepts were largely younger than me. Not all -- some of the newest, after all, have a line of people waiting for their turn. There were a few older than me, too, but every last person there knew my reputation. I kept my head up, even with the whispers rising around me. There were maybe twelve of us in total, there -- half the house, perhaps less. 

Etienne was the last to arrive, clad in his formal robes, hair coiffed and eyes lined with kohl. He had even shaved his coat of stubble. He looked, in every aspect, like the dowayne of Valerian which he was. 

For a few hours, patrons came and went. With each one, Etienne had us rise to our feet and present ourselves. The older among us had some poise, but they knew the way to appeal to a client. To make their true nature known. The younger ones defaulted to blushing, averting their eyes as though they were still virgins. But me, well.

I was as unfuckingchangeable as ever.

I looked them in the eye. I folded my arms as though I was still an urchin on the streets, not an adept in the service of Naamah. I scoffed, I sneered, I challenged.

Etienne didn't even get to explain my mark once. Not even a single one of the patrons lingered on me for so much as a moment. Not the older ones, and definitely not the younger ones living off their parents' money. Though there were thankfully few of those. 

Our numbers dwindled as the hours went by. The patrons, though, also dwindled as the hours passed by. There were half of us there that had been to start, and all of us knelt on the pillows, waiting for whoever would come next. Some of the younger initiates, not yet fully inducted to the arts, brought us trays of cheese and fruit, since Etienne wasn't going to pardon us for lunch. Midday was popular patron time, sure, but only among the patrons who'd made appointments. Casually wandering into the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers for a lunchtime screw wasn't commonly done. 

My legs were falling asleep from kneeling for so long. I shifted them and rubbed my ankles. More whispering rose up, but I was incapable of giving a fuck. I heard Etienne heave a sigh like the world had been placed upon his shoulders, but I couldn't give much of a fuck about that, either.

Another hour passed before the next patron arrived. Before he did, though, one of the younger wards came and whispered something into Etienne's ear. He perked up as eagerly as a dog offered a bone, rose to his feet far less gracefully than he probably should have, and scurried out of the room. He was gone for a good twenty minutes, and then, when he came back, the next patron dogged his heels. 

Okay. Let's roll back, for a minute.

You may remember when I was talking to Dave about being put in the lineup for first-timers, how there was a sliding scale of best to worst. Kids living on their parents' dime: Probably, sad as it seems, the best. Full grown adults who thought they were above Naamah's arts? Next worst. Bottom of the barrel was the people coming to cry on your shoulder about their lost spouse or daughter or, I don't know, cat. 

Except.

Well, fucking except.

There's one thing worse than a sob story, and it was standing behind Etienne, head sweeping around with wide eyes, taking in the decorations, the silks and cushions and gilded columns. As Etienne led him in, all of us rose to our feet, including me, because what the fuck else was I going to do? Get in even more trouble? But it was clear none of us really wanted to. 

See, our new patron was a foreigner.

Nobody ever wants to take a foreigner as a client. They're clumsy. They can't speak Angeline with any sort of grace. They're demanding and nosy and don't know how to leave well enough alone, and they always, always fucking think they're being overcharged for our services, as though we subsist on the morning dew and mockingbird farts. 

There was a barely-masked cough, and I heard one of the younger adepts whisper something that definitely would have gotten them a scolding if Etienne had heard it. Then the room fell dead silent as all of us assumed our poses -- the younger adepts, heads down and blushing. The older ones, poised but ready to appear shy. And me, brazen and challenging and ready to put up a fucking fight. 

"Here we are," Etienne said, and swept a bow. "Allow me to introduce you."

The man behind him was perhaps a year or two older than me. He had deeply tanned skin, hair coiffed up in a way that was decidedly not in style in Terre d'Ange, and eyes the color of emeralds behind a pair of expensive-looking spectacles. His clothes, too, belied his apparent attempt to appear local. Oh, they were Angeline style and make, but thrown together in a way that made it look like he'd dressed with the light off, or that a toddler had picked out his clothes for him. 

"I don't think I'll need that so much!" he said in clearly accented Angeline, in a decidedly antiquated manner of speech. I felt my nose develop new wrinkles as I curled my lip in disgust. Where had this guy learned to talk? "All it takes is just a look at the fellows, and I've got it figured toes to tip." He made a show of putting one hand to his chin and moving his eyes down the line. He skipped over the blushing new adepts, hummed and considered as he glanced over Cecile, who was _definitely_ older than me and had curves to match her experience. I let out a mental sigh of relief and, for just an instant, relaxed my guard, sure that if Cecile was up his alley, a skinny ginger dude wasn't going to be.

"You," he said, and when I looked up, he was pointing at me. Behind him, Etienne was gawking.

"Excuse me?" I asked. I heard my voice crack, almost imperceptibly to anyone but myself.

"You," he repeated. He was using the wrong form of "you," to add insult to injury. "You're the one I pick! Did my eenies and my meenies and landed on you." That last sentence was gibberish, and he looked back at Etienne. "Am I not using the words correctly?"

"Your command of Angeline is very impressive," Etienne assured him. He must have been a real bigwig, for Etienne to dismiss such flagrant disregard for proper grammar. "I'm afraid Dirk is just rather ... stubborn."

"Dirk," he repeated, without any of the Angeline inability to pronounce the k. His brow furrowed even deeper. "That's not an Angeline name, is it?"

"It's Skaldic," I said, but that was as much as I was going to offer him. I crossed my arms, furrowed my own brow, and set my mouth firmly into a flat line. 

"Skaldic!" he said, delighted instead of offended as he should have been. "You're just a regular seventh wonder, aren't you? Boy howdy, am I excited to pick that brain of yours a little deeper." 

I didn't move.

He frowned again. "Was my fee not enough to -- ?" he started, turning toward Etienne once more.

"More than enough," Etienne assured him, and turned toward me. "Dirk," he hissed, and he deliberately emphasized the k in the way that the foreigner hadn't. "This man has paid for his choice of the adepts of Valerian. You ought to be flattered that he found you suitable and didn't require further investigation. Please stop being so -- bullheaded." His voice was even, but his tone was harsh, and in a way a foreigner wouldn't pick up on. To someone who wasn't Angeline born and bred, he sounded polite. Pleading, even. 

I didn't have the room to argue. I sighed, lowered my head in deference, and stepped forward.

"Allow me to lead you to my chambers," I said. When I glanced up, the man's handsome face had lit up with a wide smile.

He followed me through the halls, up the stairs to where I saw my patrons. It was, of course, a different room from where I slept and read and took care of myself. This isn't in any of the scriptures, but you can quote me when I tell you that a man shouldn't shit where he eats. We have special rooms designated for use by any of the adepts, and I led the man to the same one I always used. 

It smelled of incense. Namely, it smelled of our house's namesake flower, spices from the east, and the salt of the sea, which was my own personal request of the perfumier. The gauzy curtains were arranged just so over the window, letting the sunlight through in hazy lines while still obscuring the view enough to lend us an air of privacy. None of the tools were laid out on the bed; I didn't like to pick out instruments for my patrons to use when they had their own tastes. Especially when I had no idea what those tastes were.

I seated myself on the bed. I looked up at my client. And then I reached back and undid the knots that held my garments together. They slid away like petals of a flower, leaving me naked before him.

The foreigner had the audacity to whistle.

"That's considered rude in the City of Elua," I said without thinking, then cringed. But then, if he was here, surely he wouldn't mind giving me a bit of punishment. Maybe he'd anticipated the bad behavior from how I'd comported myself downstairs. Maybe that was why he'd chosen me in the first place.

He just laughed.

"Is it?" he said, apparently delighted. "You Angelines have such strange customs! We don't have anything like this Court of yours back home, you know." 

"I don't know if you've noticed," I said, unable to keep the dry sarcasm from my voice, "but we take the gospel of Elua very seriously here, considering the city is named for him." 

The foreigner laughed again. I was already sick of it. Why was he dragging this out? He had paid for me and likely he knew exactly what he was getting. There wasn't a chance in hell that Etienne hadn't explained my "gifts," likely in an attempt to wring more coin out of him. 

"Do you have a name?" I asked, my patience almost out.

"Oh," he said. He seemed to think very deeply about it for a moment, then said, "Jake, if you want. I wasn't sure you'd give much of a whit about that, with your, um." He seemed to fish for a word. "Profession?" he attempted, though the form he used was antiquated enough that even eighty year-olds would have thought it was out of date. 

"Why wouldn't we have use for the names of our patrons?" It was impossible not to show him up. With every one of his clumsy word choices and strange sentence structures, my urge to be even more polite, formal, and fucking impeccable rose more to the surface. "Naamah knew the name of the King, after all." 

He shrugged, looking completely uninterested. 

"My grandmother insisted I come here," he said, after a beat of silence between us. "She said that if I went to the City of Elua without paying a visit to the Court of Night-Bloomers -- " 

"Night-Blooming Flowers," I corrected him, unable to help myself.

"Yes, that," he said, without correcting his stumble. "Then she'd have to twist my ear all the way around and back the other way again!" A blush rose into his cheeks. It made him look young and, frankly, even more attractive. I breathed in through my nose. "Though," he added, "I do wish she wouldn't butt her nose in about a fellow's more primal proclivities." 

Great. So not only was he foreign, he was also living off his family's money. It might have been his grandmother's, instead of his parents', but the principle was the same. He was a bit old to get an all-expenses-paid court visit as a birthday gift, but likely neither he nor his grandmother understood that. 

Fucking foreigners. 

"Well," I said, and swept my hand across the bed. His eyes followed my hand, and the blush in his cheeks deepened. "Where would you like to start?"

"Do," he said, muttered something in a language I absolutely didn't fucking recognize, and then cleared his throat. "Do Angelines not engage in, ah, Elua's glistening shits, what's the word? Foreplay?" 

"Do you consider conversation foreplay?" I rose to my feet. His eyes followed my movement. It was pretty obvious how they strayed immediately to my dick, to the bony jut of my hips. I turned away from him, walking slowly and deliberately over to the cupboard. I opened the doors. There, laid out on a cushion of fine velvet, were some of the tools of Valerian's trade. The blindfold, the _flechettes_ with their fine sharp edges, the paddle, three different types of rope. I had, in my time, had all of them used upon me. I'd enjoyed them in varying amounts, depending on the patron. 

"Do you not?" He sounded frankly dumbfounded. I considered the options laid out before me, and plucked up the blindfold. But besides that, I couldn't decide what this strange man was going to expect from me. Or what he would like. Maybe he was from a country where all domination was done with your hands. On the other hand, maybe these tools seemed like child's play to him. I selected one of the rougher types of rope, coiled and tied off prettily, and turned to face him.

He seemed to take a moment to register what I had in my hands. Then he raised his own hands, his eyes going wide and his blush going deep and almost blotchy. He stammered something furiously, again in the language I definitely didn't speak. We were taught a lot of languages at the Court, if they were deemed necessary for our work. Whatever he was speaking definitely was not. 

"I don't understand you," I said. I did raise my eyebrows. The words were out of my parlance, but his expression spoke volumes. He had no idea why I had those things in my hand, or possibly how to even use them. 

So what was he doing here?

He stammered a few more words, then cleared his throat, shook his head wildly, and tried again. 

"Those aren't necessary!" he said. "I was just thinking we could, you know, do the ol' horizontal whatsit all by our lonesomes. Well, our twosomes! But I don't think I'll need -- " 

"Do you know where you are?" I was aware my voice was incredulous, but I wasn't sure if he'd pick up on it. To be honest, I couldn't be bothered to care. I hoped he knew I was offended, but even if he didn't, the question had to be asked. "There are thirteen fucking houses in the Court." I chose the vulgarity deliberately. I hoped it offended him. All he did in response was blink. "Thirteen. You could have had your choice of any of Naamah's doctrines, any of the night's flowers, and you chose -- "

"My favorite?" he finished for me. 

Fucking.

Foreigners.

"I'm taking you back downstairs," I said, whirling on my heel to put the rope and the blindfold back. This was too insulting even for an adept of Valerian. Etienne would see that. Etienne would apologize to the foreigner, take him to a house more suited to him. Eglantine or Orchis or Jasmine, maybe. I slammed the cupboard shut. I turned to reach for my clothes.

He intercepted me, and pulled me into a deep kiss. 

It was insulting, how gentle it was. Like he was there for lovemaking, the soft and kind caresses of a lover instead of the commands of a dominant to his submissive. I pulled away, but his hands went to my wrists, pulling me back into it. He was experienced; that much was clear. This wasn't the shrinking, curious kiss of a virgin. It wasn't this asshole's first ride on the pocket pony. He licked into my mouth. His grip on my wrists turned tight. I resisted the wave of sudden pleasure that threatened to overtake me momentarily. 

Then I managed, at last, to wrench myself back. I heaved in a deep breath. He blinked down at me over his spectacles. 

"Was that so bad?" he asked, but he didn't release me. 

"There are twelve other houses," I repeated, "and each one would be better for you than this one is, apparently. I'm going to go explain to Eti -- to the head of our house that you've chosen poorly by accident, and then -- " 

He surveyed my face with such intensity that I cut myself off. There was something strange coming over his expression. He bit his lip, exposing a pair of gapped front teeth -- a reassuring imperfection in his otherwise flawless looks. 

"I'm not sure I did choose poorly," he said. His eyebrows furrowed as he studied me. He released one of my hands, bringing his fingers up to stroke the skin under my left eye. 

Then, with deep darkness in his voice, he said, "On your knees, now." 

I did just what any good, well-trained adept of Valerian should: I obeyed the command. I could lie to you and say I fought it, or try to convince you that I put up a stink about that, too, but I am actually trying to be a little bit honest here, whether the bulk of this story is a lie or not. I did what I was told. It _is_ honest to tell you that I think I was caught off guard by it coming from this hapless foreigner who had stammered out something about not needing a blindfold -- a fucking blindfold! -- only a minute before. So my subconscious took over, and I knelt. I kept my eyes on him, though. That much of my defiance was still intact. 

He reached down and rustled one hand through my hair. I'd taken precise care, that morning, to have it arranged and coiffed just so, and he seemed to delight in the flinch I felt pass over my face as he destroyed all my careful work. He mussed it further. 

"Dirk," he said, thoughtfully. "I think I'm getting the shape of all of this now. What Valerian means." His face curled into a frown. "Though I still think all that rigmarole is hardly necessary. What's the point of a good ol' carousing if you don't do it with your own two hands?" The hand of his that wasn't in my hair lowered to undo the laces of his trousers. He was, for the moment, still soft. I'd done this part more times than I could count. He tugged his trousers aside, shucked his coat like it was a shed skin, and pulled me closer.

I sucked him like a goddamn pro. I figured that if this was actually happening, I might as well let myself enjoy it a little. He could say what he wanted about having figured out what Valerian "meant," or whatever, but I wasn't convinced. The hand stroking through my hair was way, way too gentle for that. Oh, sure, I'd had my share of clients who liked to be soft even as they gave commands. Usually they were really fucked up in one way or another. Somehow I suspected that was not Jake's problem. If anything, he was probably too goddamn pure. He wanted to give the orders because he was a bigwig who was spoiled and always got his way, probably. Hell, he was rich enough to pay for whoever he wanted sight unseen. He was rich enough that Etienne complimented his horrendous grammar.

So, anyway, what I'm saying is that I gave some of the best head of my life. There's a funny sort of pleasure to feeling a dick harden in your mouth, even if it is what the owner of said dick has paid for. I sucked him to hardness, listened to him moan and groan and sigh, and felt damn accomplished. If all he wanted was a fucking blowjob, then I hoped I was giving him his money's worth. At least then Etienne would get off my case. 

His other hand found my hair. Both hands gripped, hard. And then he yanked me close, viciously, and started to fuck my face. 

I can't exactly articulate to you what went through my head as this happened. Largely because my thoughts were a jumble of nonsense noises, startled exclamations, and absolute goddamn gibberish. This was clearly not Jake's first time at the facefucking carnival. He'd picked the absolute right spot to grip my hair to give him the most leverage. The tightness of his grip was also perfect. Tight enough to keep me where he wanted me, loose enough that I could feel a slight amount of give when I tried to pull away. 

My throat worked on its own. I could feel tears forming reflexively in the corners of my eyes. My nostrils flared as I struggled for breath between each of his thrusts. And, behind everything else, a surging chorus of "yes, yes, yes" dogged everything he did that caused me so much as a flinch. My hands fell to my sides, fingers working reflexively. 

"Ah, there it is," Jake sighed, his voice hoarse, in between thrusts. He slowed for a moment and tightened his grip. I've always been a bit of a tenderhead, so as he did that, more pain -- and more pleasure -- spiked within me. I had to fight hard not to moan like I was being paid for it. Which, I mean, I was. Or, at least, House Valerian was. Whether a foreigner like Jake knew shit about patron gifts remained to be seen. 

Not that I was exactly thinking that clearly about that shit at the moment. Jake rolled his hips into my mouth. My throat spasmed. I managed, somehow, to keep my whimper soft enough that I don't think he heard it. 

I was fully expecting for him to just keep that up until he was finished. I'd had worse sessions, to be honest. Again, if this was all he wanted, I was prepared. It would get Etienne off my back. I liked giving blowjobs. Even ones as admittedly intense as the one I was giving right now. Calling it "giving" was generous. It was definitely being taken. 

But he released me. Well, more than released, he pushed me back. Panting, I stared up at him. I'm sure my face was approximately the color of a fucking beet. I could feel my chest heaving. And, embarrassingly, I could feel my dick, hard as a fucking rock, ready and willing to hammer some goddamn nails. 

"Right," said Jake, somewhere miles above me. I tried to make my eyes focus on him. Through the reflexive tears from his thorough facefucking, he was a hazy tan smudge. "In the bed, now, if you please." 

I coughed to clear my throat. "What way -- "

"On your back," he said before I could finish. "I want to fuck you."

Most patrons of the court didn't like words like "fuck." They used softer terms. "Make love to." "Ravish." All that gentle, flowery language. We are, after all, a country full of poets and people who think they're poets, us Angelines. There was, therefore, something pretty arousing about somebody saying it in that language. Especially with his accent, which drew out the end of the word in a way that was fairly obscene.

My training once again took over. I climbed into the bed, laying myself back against the pillows, breathing out slowly. My arousal was thinning a bit, without the foreigner exerting his command over me or causing me physical pain, but it was still very firmly present. He loomed at the side of the bed. I blinked enough to clear my vision, which let me see the way he was surveying me. He'd taken his spectacles off at some point.

"My _signale,_ " I started.

"What?" he asked, then frowned. "If you don't want to do something, just tell me no. Holy shlamoly, you Angelines make everything so complicated." He climbed up over me, spread my legs, and worked a finger into me, muttering words that I suspect were curses in his native tongue. We had lubrication, of course, in the same cupboard as the other tools of Valerian, but knowing what you know about me, about my gifts as Kushiel's chosen, tell me: Do you really think I was going to argue?

I moaned like a slut. I loved every fucking minute of it. Here, he was a lot less experienced than he had been with the facefucking, but as far as I was concerned, that was absolutely fine. Even his clumsy movements and his less than stellar attempts to find my prostate made me howl, which I'm sure made him feel like a goddamn champion. I wondered, between moments of pure haze-brained pain-and-pleasure, how much he'd understood whatever halting explanation of my talents Etienne had given him. If he was a foreigner, he might not grasp the actual intensity of Kushiel's mark in my eye.

But he had stroked my left cheek, earlier. He had to know something about it. 

I suspected that he was the sort of patron who would want people to call out his name. Therefore, I steadfastly refused to do so. Also, regardless of how foreign and unpronouncable "Dirk" was to my contemporaries, "Jake" wasn't much better the way he said it. There was no soft j like there was for Jacques or Jean. It was a hard J, further marking him as unused to our ways, and the A was also drawn out and almost nasal. 

Anyway, point is: Even in all my cries and groans and pleas, I refused to say his name.

The further things went on, the more I could tell this was frustrating him. I wouldn't say he was pissed off, but he was definitely upset. He added more fingers, stretched me wider, worked harder to try and get me to give up that forbidden fruit, and I steadfastly refused. Call it stupid if you like, but for me, it was a form of dignity. Etienne had reduced me to standing in the lineup, had handed me off to a foreigner, but he couldn't make me call him by name. It's a really stupid line, and I know it, but it was one of the only lines I could draw. So I did.

Eventually, he seemed to give up on it and just work me open for the sake of it. He grew, to my dismay, gentler as time went on. He seemed to fumble his way through nerves or inexperience or both and eventually found my prostate somehow. Don't get me wrong. Pleasure on its own is nice. But I think Kushiel sort of knew I'd like the rough shit when he picked me as his divine avatar. So the frustration I felt was just regular old frustration at not getting the shit I, personally, wanted. 

"Okay," he said, at last. "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Hurry it the hell up," I said, my patience completely at its limit.

Something in his eyes went dark. His mouth pinched to one side. "I won't have you talking to me like that again, Dirk," he said. He pulled back a bit, fingers withdrawing from my ass. I was about to make a witty quip of some kind, as you do.

In one swift movement, he rolled me over with strength I hadn't really been aware he had, and struck me hard across my ass. I'm not going to play coy with you: I yelped, jerking a bit, back arching. He hummed and did it again. I cried out again, which made him do it a third time. 

"I'm not usually much for punishment," he said, stopping after the third strike. I fell down, panting, onto the fine silk sheets. "But I'm not going to abide that sort of lip, and especially not after how much I've shelled out to be here. It's an honor, partaking in true Angeline hospitality and, hm, decadence? Perhaps that's the word." He gave my ass another slap, though this one was largely gentle. I still shivered, my neck yanking back. He took the moment to run a hand through my hair, twisting in a way that was likely to fuck it up even more than his previous attempts. "But it's an honor I don't want upset in any way. Is that clear, Dirk?" 

He punctuated the question with another strike to my ass. I shouted.

"I'll take that as agreement," he said. Immediately, he yanked me back until, like a disobedient child, I was astride his lap. I could feel his dick, hard and thick, against my stomach. He pulled my legs up, pressed one hand against my ass -- hard -- and rubbed it in a slow circle. 

"I wonder," he said, "what it's going to take to make you cry my name."

I wouldn't. I knew I could get incoherent and helpless in the midst of sex, but I had drawn that line and it was going to take a shitload of force to drag me across it. I heaved out a breath. He hummed, accordingly, and pressed his hand in tighter. Then his thumb strayed into my ass, rolling in that same slow motion. 

"Now," he said, again. "Let's get down to business." 

He gave me another hard smack. One more. Two more. Then he flipped me over, shoved me off his lap, and climbed atop me. He studied my face, let out another soft hum, and stroked my left cheek again. 

Then he leaned down and kissed me. It was as passionate as the first one had been. He traced his tongue over my lips, bit lightly, and then clenched his fingers in my hair and yanked my head back. My legs spread of their own accord. He slid between them like he had been made to occupy that position. I felt his dick against my thigh. Then I felt it against my ass. Then his other hand moved to tuck one of my legs upward, and he pushed into me. 

I howled. 

I howled like a dog. Like a wolf. Like a wounded animal. He hissed as he pushed deeper into me. He moved a little at a time, small thrusts, and I felt every single one. He thrust once. Paused for a few long seconds. Then again. Paused. Then again. It was enough to drive me fucking crazy. Every movement brought with it a brief spike of pain, a deep thrum of pleasure, and he had to know it. 

At last, he hilted, and I let out what little remained of my breath.

"That's better," he said, in a low, breathy voice. His accent rode every syllable like it was a prized horse. "I like it better when you're not managing any words at all. Though I'd settle for it, if one happened to be my name."

That was when he started moving. His hand fell off my thigh. Unfortunately, his other hand remained twined in my hair. He yanked and I yowled again. Then he let go. His hands instead found my wrists, jerked them above my head, and his pace quickened. His hips slammed against me with every thrust. I made even more completely humiliating noises.

"Come on," he said. There was a barely-there note of frustration. I heard it and savored it. I let out another cry that was decidedly not his name just to piss him off a little more. He growled. "Come _on,_ " he hissed. One hand released a wrist. Then it moved up to find my neck, and grip just tightly enough to be threatening. 

I rasped out a breath. He squeezed, once, and released. My brain started skipping unevenly, falling over itself like its ankles were tied together. I scrambled for coherency. For lucid thought of some fucking kind. He squeezed again, a second longer. My mind fizzled like sugar in water. 

"Say it," he said, and slammed his hips hard against mine.

I wouldn't. I wheezed and gasped just to make sure I still could. I coughed to make sure I could do that, too. He released my other wrist and took a bruising grip on my hip, slamming hard against me again, holding me in place as he did so. Again. Again. Harder each time. My dick throbbed against my stomach and against his as he fucked me mercilessly. I could have invoked my _signale,_ if I needed to, or taken his barbarian's method and simply told him "no."

I didn't. I didn't want to.

"Say it!" he said, more demanding, and fucked deeper into me. Deeper and deeper, every time, somehow. Maybe I was imagining it. My mind was spinning like a top, and I was losing track of what was real and what was pleasure-driven delusion. He couldn't really be fucking any deeper into me. It just felt like he was. His eyes consumed my vision, when I managed to keep my own open. His pressure on my throat was not so much that I couldn't cry out, and I did just that, over and over and over. 

I didn't say his name. 

"Say -- " he started, but his voice tapered off into a gasp. He thrust into me. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he groaned, his eyes rolling back, and his dick throbbed somewhere deep inside me. His hand tightened on my throat. I went to take a breath and couldn't. 

Of course that's when I fucking lost it. If you made a bet with somebody that it would be in the most humiliating way possible, congratulations. You're now much richer, I'm sure, but also much more of an asshole. 

His hand released me nigh immediately, don't worry. I didn't struggle for air or black out or anything like that. Elua knows, that would have torn what remained of my dignity to shreds. Instead, I just ... drifted. Aware of myself, but only on a distant level, the way you're aware of an itch when you're sleeping. 

"Dirk," a voice said. It was a voice I recognized, but it was accented with a locale I didn't know, and was coming from somewhere beyond my closed eyes. A hand stroked through my hair. I answered that presence with a low hum. "Say it for me. Won't you say it for me?"

I said his name. 

"That's a good fellow," he murmured, low and pleased, and his hand stroked further through my hair. I went back to letting myself drift, hazy and unawares to the world around me. I felt a hand stroke over my cheek, over my neck, and then I felt a gentle cloth do the same. I could hear that presence humming a tune I didn't know, something light and melodic like a drinking song.

I think that's about when I passed out. 

I came to what must have been hours later. The light coming through the curtains was different, fading into the beginnings of dusk instead of early afternoon. I could see the lamps along the streets being lit, one by one, though it was a bit early even for that. I sat up, and my back protested, the same way it often did.

The foreigner was sitting on the corner of the bed, staring at the mirror across from him on the vanity table. I could see his perplexed expression, the way he bit his lip with his gapped teeth. And I could see the way his eyes widened when he became aware that I was up and at 'em.

"Dirk!" he said, and whirled around. On seeing me, his cheeks flushed red, even though I was in the exact same state of undress I had been when he'd come. He swallowed and, at once, averted his eyes. He was wearing his spectacles again. They gave his face a youthful shape, something softer and more boyish than the expressions I'd seen him wear in the heat of the moment. It was still fairly attractive, and in a way I resented.

"Good evening," I greeted him, using the most formal and distant pronouns and conjugation I could, specifically to remind him that this, for me, had been a business encounter. "I trust I was to your satisfaction."

His eyes darted over me. I caught them lingering on my neck. I lifted a hand to follow his eyes; I could feel the beginning of blossoming bruises there, where his fingers had been. His cheeks darkened, and now, instead of just glancing at the wall or the floor, he turned his whole face to the side.

"W-well," he started, "I'm sure as sugar not going to tell you otherwise! Goodness me, Dirk, you were a whole hootenanny." I could barely keep up with his weird grammar and his even weirder word choices. "This was a real humdinger of a sockdollager, Dirk, yes sirree, and if I know my onions I don't think I'll ever see anything its like again! A romp like that with a sheik as hotsy-totsy as you, no sir, I think that's it for me. I'm a cancelled stamp from here on in."

"I don't understand what you're saying," I said, flatly.

He was fully dressed, I realized a moment later as he rustled in his formal things to produce a heavy-looking pouch. "This more than ought to cover the whole expense," he said, voice still babbling and awkward. "And wow! What an expense it was. Boy frigging howdy. I think if you don't mind a mite, I've got a man to see about a dog."

"A -- dog?" I asked, but he was already on his feet. Before I could say another word, he'd dropped the pouch on the vanity, in the sculpture of Naamah's cupped hands, where all patron gifts belonged. I gaped at it like a fish as the door shut behind him, and then scrambled to my feet despite the pretty damn vehement protests of my legs.

You're going to think I'm a real shithead for this, but of course my first thought was about how large the patron gift was. The foreigner was a client, not a friend, and this wasn't a romance novella where I would chase him and call out his name. I was here to get Etienne off my back, and Etienne would be all the more off my back if the patron gift was large. 

To be blunt, dear fuckin' reader: It was huge. 

And I know that's prime for a "that's what she said" joke, but I'm going to remind you here that I'm a member of the Court, and have heard basically every single one of those jokes you could come up with. Largely because Roxy never stops making them. 

I took my time cleaning myself up. Cleaning the room as best I could, though I knew the initiates would be in to do the bulk of the work later in the evening. I made myself presentable. By the time I was finished with all of that, the foreigner was decidedly long fucking gone, and I promise I wasn't thinking about him in the least. 

I took the pouch from the sculpture Jake had left it in, and I returned downstairs, where I requested a consultation with Etienne. I showed him the patron gift I had been left. 

His instinct was definitely to be smug. He had, after all, been the one that showed me to Jake. But on the other hand, this was beyond his wildest expectations. It was more than enough to make up for three weeks without a patron.

"Well," he said, at last, and grimaced in a way that made my heart light up with sick schadenfreude, "who knows, Dirk. Perhaps there's a type of patron you're suited to after all." _Or perhaps,_ I knew he wasn't saying, _your mark cowed you into obedience once he hurt you, the same way it works for even those of us not divinely gifted._ He was right about that more than he knew, unfortunately, but like hell was I going to give it away.

I left my gift upon the table. Etienne agreed that the next day, I could visit the city to make an appointment with the marquist, though he knew I would hate it as much as I hated my assignations. Regardless, the sooner it was done, the sooner I would be free to choose my own life. 

Through all of this, I'll be honest with you, I didn't have so much as a passing thought about Jake, the strange foreigner who'd happened upon our house seemingly by accident. After all, I was fairly sure I'd never see him again, the same way it was with most patrons.

Well.

Laugh it up, I guess.

Because there's a shitload more of _this_ story to go.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter's shit includes breathplay, facefucking, spanking, and dry fucking. Thanks I'll be here all week!!


End file.
